A Christmas Carol
by Ryuuko1
Summary: A retelling of "A Christmas Carol" in the Transformers movieverse.
1. Marley's Ghost

**Author**: I was watching A Muppet Christmas Carol when this pounced on me. To which I thought, "huh, that'd be hard but interesting." So...this is it. _Transformers_ and _A Christmas Carol_, all wrapped p in one absurd package.

**Disclaimer**: Neither A Christmas Carol or Transformers belong to me. Alas.

---

Samuel James Witwicky had been a hero.

He had been loved and admired and esteemed for his service to humanity. He had been on top of the world, and no-one seemed to mind having him there. Once graduated from college, he had immediately been given a cushy, lifetime government job that paid quite handsomely, assuring that he would never be wanting for money. He had been married to a woman who understood him, (Mikaela) and had a daughter on the way, making him swell with joy and pride. He had strong ties with the Cybertronian Autobots, and worked with them on a daily basis, attempting to have them accepted by the general human populace—his natural charisma, courtesy of him being a Prime, swayed people to his way of thinking if he tried hard enough.

However, comparing his current person to his past was like comparing apples and oranges—no-one who knew him could see the old Sam in the current one.

Time, reality, and Fate had not been kind to the man. Youthful, bright optimism had flickered and faded into a dark, twisted cynicism. His eyes had dulled from their former vivacious vibrancy, and were now cold, hard, and flat. His hair had gone gray early, and it seemed as if the chill air he carried around himself had caused the ambient water in the air to freeze and settle lightly on his scalp. His face still appeared young and smooth, not a wrinkle etched into his face—but the blankness was almost as telling as if he had lines of care and anger and deep sadness carved onto his visage. His voice was smooth as silk, a joy to listen to, and his eloquence and charisma still drew people to him, who he never hesitated to wrap around his fingers.

He was still _respected_, although not _liked._

Sam was the head of an entire government agency, and, in the beginning, it had flourished and grown and Sam's work had _meaning_.

Now, it was just him and Leo Spitz-Simmons, and his department was seen as a joke. Where was the need for an Extraterrestrial Relations Agency when there were no Extraterrestrials to deal with?

It was December the 23rd when Sam entered his small office in a government complex, and hung up his jacket on the coat-rack that was close to the door. From the one that was already hanging there, he knew that Leo had come in before him—as was how Sam liked it. Leo was a good worker, and he was glad that he had managed to retain him even when everyone else left due to government downsizing.

Sam looked in on Leo's small adjoined room and gave him a polite nod, which was returned with an exhausted wave. They two were partners in misfortune, so perhaps it was only natural that they ended up working with each other. Sam walked over to his own desk, noting the still-large amount of stickies tacked on his wall and sighed softly.

Even though his department was largely ignored, he was the one who all the other government agencies fielded their 'What-the-hell-_is_-this?' cases to, which meant he and Leo dealt with everything from Bigfoot to abductions (alien or not was inconsequential).

There was a surprisingly large amount of the unusual and unnerving, so he and Leo were _always_ busy.

Sam walked over to the wall and took off a handful of sticky-notes, walking over to his desk and sitting down after arranging the notes on the worn wood beside him. He logged on to his computer with a touch of his fingerprint, and the Mac immediately sprang to life. He tapped the desk before him and a keyboard appeared, and he allowed his fingers to rest lightly on the keys. With a preemptive wince he opened his e-mail and sighed heavily as he was bombarded with holiday party invitations and half-veiled demands for him to show up at dignitary so-and-so's gathering _or else._

He answered with a polite "no" to all the invitations he could turn down and tried to find a way around needing to attend the other political functions—Sam unequivocally _despised_ the holiday season, although Christmas was a particular sore-spot for him, and the constant bombardment of holiday cheer he received on television, in stores, on the radio, on the internet, and so forth drove him up a wall. Christmas wasn't so much a time to be merry as to rub those who had experienced loss even further into the dirt.

_A time for family and friends,_ Sam thought bitterly as he continued to delete troublesome e-mails. _What about those who lack that? What do _they_ do?_

Sam didn't know how Leo did it. He supposed that the only way he maintained his good humor was that he and his husband had adopted a brood before the untimely passing of said husband—Seymour Simmons. The gaggle that had occasionally invaded Sam's abode set his teeth on age, a further twist of a jagged knife in an old, still-oozing wound. The veiled looks of pity that Leo gave him when Sam was particularly snappy after a family visit only further incensed the man, but Leo managed to brush it off with remarkable aplomb.

Leo still believed in a "Merry Christmas," while Sam wished it would just _go away._

Sam was settling in for another long day when the door burst open, causing Sam to put his head in his hands and groan softly.

"I thought I told the security guards to deny you access."

"Aw, c'mon, is that how you greet your best friend?"

Sam let his hands fall to his lap as he leaned back in his chair. "Miles..." Sam sighed as his eyes moved to the amused countenance of his childhood friend.

Miles sauntered up to his desk and leaned on it, moving the computer's projection out of the way. "It's not good for you to be cooped up in here all the time. You need to get out more."

"I'm _fine,_ Miles," Sam said tiredly as he crossed his arms. "I _don't_ need to 'get out more.'"

"You need to _relax,_ man. Anyway, it's Christmas—do you even _notice_ how nice the lights are? Or how there's actually a bit of a nip in the air? You need to appreciate the little things that make the holidays so nice_._"

"Miles, go away," Sam said patiently. "You know that me and the holidays don't get along."

"At least agree to come to Clara and mine's holiday party."

"Every year you offer and every year I give you the same answer—_no_. I go to enough parties on obligation to want to go to one willingly."

"Ouch, that hurts," Miles said, miming a shot to the heart. The playfulness sobered into a kind of wistful sadness. "You can't hold on to that forever, you know. You really need to move on."

Sam's eyes narrowed in anger. "You can talk to me about moving on once you've experienced the loses I have," he said tightly. "Until then, feel free to keep Christmas in your way, and I in mine."

"But you _don't_ keep Christmas at all!"

"Then let me leave it alone," Sam drawled, moving the projection back in front of him, blocking Miles.

"Anyway, what right have you to be so damn happy? You're poor enough."

"Then how come you can be so bitchy when you have enough money to end hunger in DC?"

Sam rubbed his temples with his fingers. "Look, Miles. People are _scum._ They know the system and they _milk it_ for all it's worth. I don't make myself merry at this time of year, and damn well am not going to make idle people merry. There will be bottom-feeders even if I _do_ do everything in my power to end hunger in this wretched excuse for a capital. We have prisons and homeless shelters and welfare for a reason—if people are so desperate, they can go _there._"

Miles shook his head in sorrow. "Every year you get worse, Sam. People are _dying_ out there."

"Why should _I _care? There's a population crisis on this planet! Why is it _my_ concern if people who are lazy and manipulative _die_? Why should I care about the lives of drug dealers or hustlers or mobsters? Tell me why these people deserve to live? _Why didn't my wife and daughter live when they deserved it so much more_?"

Miles sighed softly and took a small object out of his pocket, placing it on Sam's desk. "If that's what you think," he said. "Still, _I'm_ going to continue to work to better the lives of these people, and at this time of year it's easiest, for people are more willing to open their hearts to those in need. If only you'll do that again someday. So! Have a Merry Christmas!"

"Use the door."

"And a Happy New Year!"

"_Door._"

Miles simply smiled and poked his head into Leo's office, bidding him the greetings of the season.

"DOOR!" Sam snarled, and Miles laughed as he left with a wave before closing the indicated door behind him.

Sam put his head in his hands and sighed. _God, Miles, your visits _always_ give me a headache._ He leaned back in the chair and turned it so he was facing the wall that was entirely a window, his gaze sweeping out onto the streets and the passers-by who looked so small—like ants, like sheep, to be herded according to his whims and designs.

Gold and red and green were draped all over, lighted snowflakes glowing in the early-afternoon gloom. The sky was overcast and promised a chilling rain that would seep through even the thickest raincoat. Yet, people still ran about the streets, getting in last-minute holiday shopping, laughing and smiling, the cold turning their faces bright pink with breathless excitement.

Sam turned away from the window, face pinching in a myriad of emotions. He looked at the small object resting on his desk and sighed heavily.

_What did he get me this year?_ Sam wondered as he unwrapped the small gift. It turned out to be a gift card to a music site, which made Sam smile. Music was one of the few pleasures in his life. It would be like Miles to get him an actually thoughtful gift. He placed the card in his wallet before he threw himself into his work, as he usually did at this particular time of year, and was lost in it until he felt a gentle tap on his shoulder.

He looked up, eyes taking a moment to focus on the person standing beside him, eventually resolving Leo.

"What?" he asked flatly, but the other man brushed it off.

"You don't want to be late for the one engagement you couldn't get out of. I'm going home. I won't be in for the next week."

Sam sighed dejectedly. "Yeah, I know, I know. Enjoy the time with your _family_," he drawled, a slightly bitter tone to his voice.

Leo patted Sam's shoulder gently before walking away to his office, leaving Sam staring accusingly at the clock on the top right of his computer's screen.

He _really_ didn't want to go to the the particular Gala he was obligated to go to that night, but knew that his position in the government hierarchy required it.

He stood and gathered his meagre belongings before leaving without even a "good-night," he in such a sour mood. He smoothed his face over before he got out of his wing, and was able to drop "Happy Holidays" without it turning into a sarcastic drawl once he had entered the rest of the world.

He walked to the subway station that would take him to his apartment complex, descending the stairs with the smallest of smiles on his features so that any who recognized him—and there were many—wouldn't be able to call him on his ill-humor.

He moved to wait for the subway, taking out the pocket watch from his pants-pocket. He frowned and lightly tapped on the watch as he saw the second hand slow, then stop. It occurred to him then that there was no-one around him, which was odd for the time of year and day.

Abruptly, someone appeared beside him, making him start and take a step back. It took a moment to place the face, though, but when Sam did, he frowned. "Galloway? What the _hell_ are you doing here?"

"Trying to keep you from making the same mistake I did," the man replied, and it was then that Sam realized that the person to whom he was speaking was _transparent;_ however, the clothes remained remarkably real.

"What do you mean?" Sam asked, curious in spite of himself.

"What's the most important thing in your life? Don't lie—not to me _or_ to _yourself,_" the former government official asked, hands tugging at cuffs and collar and waist that seemed to be painfully tight.

Sam's mouth opened and closed, a frown forming on his features. "Me, I guess. _I'm_ the most important thing in my life."

Galloway nodded slowly. "As good an answer as I expected—but the real answer is _power_. You _seek_ it, _crave_ it, _lust_ for it. It's the driving force behind everything you do, everything that you _are_." Galloway's smile was wan and fleeting, much as his body seemed to fade in and out of existence while his clothes remained corporeal.

"Aren't you dead?" Sam finally asked, morbidly curious.

"Twenty-Seven years," the man answered. "I'm quite glad you recognized me, actually. I wasn't looking forward to explaining who I was if you hadn't."

"_How_ are we speaking? And why do you look young again?" Sam half-demanded.

"Does it matter? We are," Galloway murmured, his movements slow, ponderous, and tortured.

"_Why_?"

"Because, right now, you're tending towards what I am."

Sam frowned. "Everyone dies eventually."

"But not everyone is _stuck_ here, wandering among the living, powerless to do anything. Not everyone wears the weight of their stubborn refusal to work for the public good, not everyone is confined and defined by the suit for the job that mattered most in life."

"You're obviously not _that_ powerless—"

Galloway shook his head sharply. "I have no idea how you can see or interact with me—I suppose it's Providence of one kind or another. Or perhaps, my desire to see the only Prime on Earth not lose himself."

Sam frowned. "You never gave a shit about my being a Prime."

"Death gives one perspective," he answered.

"What's wrong with your clothes?" Sam asked, changing the subject. "And why are you transparent?"

Galloway looked at his suit, a wan smile forming on his face. "In life, it was my job, the _power_ that I wielded that was the most important thing to me. Now, in death, I am stuffed into it, every strand woven by my lies, my manipulations, my inconsideration for the welfare of my fellow human being. Every stitch in this suit was expressly made by my choices, and each piece of cloth is heavy with the responsibility I never took on in life. I am bowed under it, Sam. It hurts to wear, but I will never escape it until my penance is fulfilled."

"Uh-huh," Sam murmured, obviously disbelieving.

After a brief pause, a small smirk flitted across the Galloway's face before he turned to look at Sam full-on. "Have you ever read _A Christmas Carol_?"

"Charles Dickens? Maybe for school. Why?"

"Perhaps you should have paid more attention in school." The sound of a subway was audible coming roaring down the tracks, and another small smile formed on Galloway's face. "Don't want you to miss your train," he murmured, and before Sam could react, Sam found himself pushed off the train platform, falling with almost agonizing slowness as the lights of the subway raced towards him.

Sam jolted back to himself and looked around him, noticing the hustle and bustle of people absorbed in their holiday traditions and activities. He looked down at his pocket watch and found that not a minute had passed, the second hand ticking dutifully away. Sam shifted nervously on his feet before shaking his head and muttered, "I'm _finally_ going crazy."

Still, he found himself shaking as he sat on the subway, and it was from more than just the sway of the vehicle.

His mind drifted and he tried not to sneer at the last-minute shoppers laden with bags full of frivolities, and he came upon his train stop with thankful rapidity, letting him off and to wander to his apartment. After the musty, warm air of the subway station, the bite of the cold outside was a slight surprise. He hadn't thought that it would be so brisk out. He brushed the sensation away, though, and continued on his way, lost in his own mind and he purposefully ignoring those he passed, the collar of his jacket upturned to hide his face and keep the wind off it.

Eventually, he reached his apartment complex, a sigh slowly exiting his lips, although whether it was from relief or not was not something he concerned himself with.

In terms of living quarters, he had no need of anything particularly grand—he had no family, afterall, and the smaller the space, the less gaping the lack seemed. He entered the complex after his retina was scanned, he walking into the blissful warmth of the lobby. He ignored the doorman, checked his mail (nothing—not that he minded, as Christmas cards were a pain to respond to), and then headed up to his abode.

He was surprisingly relieved when he entered it, and shook himself, laughing quietly. Who was he, to believe in ghosts? Nonsense, all of it. Perhaps he was too tired, and was hallucinating.

That, unfortunately, was not a good enough excuse to get out of the Gala he was to attend in two hours' time.

Sam dropped his bag on his couch and wandered into his bedroom, gathering what he would need for the Gala. He had more important things to worry about than some cryptic warning from a dead man—if any of that had been real at all.

Still, a nagging worry made him take a cab to the Gala, avoiding other forms of mass transit out of a lingering wariness.

The ride to the function was uneventful, and Sam's world had righted to how it should be. He could predict its motions once more, and that satisfied his bleeding spirit as he plastered on a smile and entered the political melee.


	2. The Ghost of Christmas Past

**Author**: Next instalment of my attempt at a retelling of the classic Christmas tale.

**Disclaimer**: Not mine, either of them.

---

It was nearly one in the morning when Sam managed to escape the holiday function, and he loosened his tie and collar as he walked down the street to where he would be able to catch a cab. He needed a little bit of time to get rid of some excess energy. As a Prime, he thrived in social situations, so he always had some leftover energy knocking around in him that made it difficult for him to sleep unless he did something to get rid of it.

He _hated_ being up so early. He _needed_ his sleep, just to keep himself on his feet in the cutthroat world he roamed.

He caught a cab and was taken to his apartment complex. He paid the driver in exact change before exiting, walking into the complex lobby. He nodded at the night guard, the only indication that he had even noticed the man's presence. He took the elevator up and walked over to his room.

The clock across the room turned to one in the morning just as Sam locked the door behind himself.

When the man turned to get ready for bed, he found himself face-to-face with what was undeniably a Cybertronian sparkling.

"Samuel," the small Cybertronian said in a voice Sam knew well—it was Optimus'.

Sam groaned and rubbed his temples. "God, I must be more tired than I thought. I'm _hallucinating_."

"You weren't told of my coming?" the sparkling asked, sounding amused.

"No, and I don't care. You're just a figment of my imagination," Sam said shortly. "I _really_ need my sleep after dealing with that pool of sharks."

"I am no hallucination. I am the Ghost of Christmas Past," the sparkling answered solemnly.

_Have you ever read 'A Christmas Carol',_ popped into Sam's mind, making him groan in dismay. _"You _are a _spirit_ and_ y_ou're going to drag me through my past and show me how I could have been and blah-di-blah, aren't you? And _then_ there's going to be the Present and the Future and I'm going to be cowed and repentant and change my ways," Sam drawled, gesturing with a hand idly.

"You make it sound so mundane," the spirit murmured. "That story is based on a dream that the author had—it was nothing more than a flight of fancy. But so people believe in it, so it occurs. Not to many, mind you, but there are apparently enough people out there that care enough to _want_ to see you change your outlook."

"Then why is _my_ ghost a Cybertronian sparkling?"

"I am what would best to make you understand the lesson you are to learn," the Ghost answered before moving to place one hand on Sam's chest. "Now. The night is waning fast and we have much time to cover."

"Jesus," Sam groaned in dismay, and was surprised when he found himself lying in _very_ cold snow, the sparkling looking down at his prone form. Sam sputtered and thrashed, and eventually stood, brushing snow off himself. He looked to where he had been lying and stared when there was not even a hint of an indent.

"Nothing you do will have any effect—this _is_ the past, and things are what they are."

Sam glared at the sparkling before he turned away and looked around, trying to place where he was.

"Grandmom's house," Sam whispered softly. "It seemed like there was snow every Christmas we were here. A kid's dream come true," he murmured, his eyes falling upon an child who was very familiar.

"You were such a happy child," the sparkling observed.

Sam smiled faintly. "There was much to be happy about. There were cookies, playing with cousins, and presents. It seems almost too good to be true, seeing it now."

Sam winced when his younger self got hit with a slush-ball, his smaller form chasing a cousin around the yard in childish anger, which quickly faded in favor of making a snowman. "I actually looked forward to Christmas," Sam said wryly.

"Mm-hm," the sparkling murmured before their surroundings shifted and reformed around them, Sam finding himself in another scene.

Sam looked around, wondering at the location. Eventually, he located himself and frowned. "What are we doing here?" he asked.

The sparkling tilted its head slightly, indicating a slightly dilapidated building. "Do you remember that the first time you decided Mikaela was someone you wanted to be with rather than a girl to avoid was on Christmas?"

Sam's eyebrows rose. "No. I didn't think I was so young," he murmured as he looked at his heavily blushing self as he deliberately left a present in Mikaela's mailbox, addressed with a computer-printed tag so that she wouldn't know it was _him_ who left the present. He watched himself retreat and reached out a hand, only to have it pass through. "I must've biked here—it was too far to walk."

"No, you walked," the spirit said, amused. "There were two other Christmases with that young woman," the sparkling said and Sam found himself observing his person in a small, cozy, obviously family-run restaurant, fidgeting in his seat as he fingered something in his pocket nervously.

Sam smiled faintly, fondly. "When I proposed to Mikaela. Yes, I remember this very well," he said and sat down to watch the events unfold, a laugh passing his lips.

"Mikaela was late. It was the first time that _I_ was _early_ anywhere. I wanted everything to be _just right_. God, I used to be such the romantic. When she walked in, she stole my breath away," he said, and at that moment the past-Mikaela walked in, dressed in a shot, almost skin-tight silky black dress, stiletto heels clicking lightly on the floor, a small, almost _decorative_ purse hanging on her shoulder.

Sam watched himself stand and scramble to pull out the chair for her. It wrenched his heart to hear Mikaela's laugh again, to see her smiling face. "We talked about work—Mikaela was as busy as I was from the growing number of Autobots making Earth their home. She, along with my mom and dad and a few veteran NEST officers, was charged with helping the newbies adjust. I suppose that made each of our meetings even more precious."

Sam chuckled and shook his head, "As for me, it certainly was _interesting_ working under Simmons. That he didn't show favoritism towards Leo was remarkable." Sam sighed softly. "Every year he'd throw this _massive_ office party that all the departments were invited to. It definitely was a..._unique_ affair."

"But you stopped it."

Sam nodded slowly. "I did. Once we were downsized I didn't have much of a budget to use."

"People _used_ to invite you to the other holiday parties that picked up where Simmons' no longer was."

"What use had I for parties? I was _busy_ taking up what used to be Simmons' job. I've always wondered why Leo never took it..."

"Perhaps because his priorities are different from yours."

Sam gave the spirit a sharp glance, but refrained from making any comment, instead turning his attention back to the date at hand.

Once dinner was done, Mikaela took out a small box from the purse and slid it across the table.

"Open it," she half-commanded, a smile growing on her face.

Sam's younger self looked between the box and Mikaela warily before he opened it.

Inside laid a plain gold band, tiny Cybertronian glyphs on it, which Sam recognized as the beginning of a traditional Cybertronian Bonding ceremony. Sam looked up, about to inquire what it was about when Mikaela asked: "Will you marry me?"

Sam's mouth dropped open in shock before he started laughing, which made Mikaela laugh as well. Once Sam had regained his composure he said, "I was about to ask _you_ that."

"Really? I'm surprised that you worked up enough balls to do so," Mikaela said teasingly, which made Sam flush in embarrassment.

"Yeah, well..."

"So, what's your answer, Sam?"

"Of course—I will if you will," Sam said, and placed his own small box on the table. Mikaela opened it before grinning.

"Aw, Sam, you're so _cute_," she said and slipped on the ring, a gold band with a sapphire in a simple setting.

"The...the stone matches your eyes, although nothing is quite as beautiful as you are..."

Mikaela laughed and leaned over the table, Sam meeting her halfway, lips meeting in a gentle, brief kiss.

Sam was smiling wistfully when the ghost said:

"Not all Christmas memories with her are pleasant to behold."

Sam's head whipped around to look at the ghost, horror on his features. "No, _please_ do not show me _that_ Christmas. It..."

"These events are merely what they are—do not blame _me_ for _your_ past," the sparkling asserted before the scene shifted.

On the outside, it appeared that all was well—there was a tall Christmas tree standing near a window, decked out in ornaments and gold and red, lights winding throughout the boughs. The house was ablaze with light, and there were slightly-singed cookies resting on a plate on the kitchen table.

But that was only the living room.

Sam was frozen in space, his eyes closing, hands pressing to his ears. "No," he moaned. "Don't show me this, _don't show me this_."

There was a rough shove to his back, making Sam stumble forward, the sparkling looking at him reprovingly. "Your past choices were yours to make. Face them—do not run from them."

Sam hesitated and wandered forward, to where he knew his office used to be.

It was then he heard yelling, and tears, and desperation...and distance. Cold aloofness. Detachment.

Sam leaned against the door and found himself stumbling through it, coming face-to-face with the confrontation going on.

"God _damn_ it, Sam! Don't you care?!"

"Of _course_ I do! They were _my_ friends, too!"

"Were! Past-tense! They haven't been your friends since _you_ passed that _stupid_ law!"

"It was _necessary_, 'Kaela. Relations were becoming strained and there _is_ the Blight—"

"No! Don't lie to me, Sam! You've _changed_! Now all that matters to you now is keeping your job, advancing so you have more influence, power!"

"It keeps us _comfortable_ and well-provided. I'm thinking about us, about our daughter—"

"God, Sam, _stop it!_ This _isn't_ about _us_ anymore—at one point, yeah, but not anymore. You don't care about _me_, just your career! This is _wrong_ Sam! I can't...I can't take this _distance_ you've put up between us!"

"Mikaela—"

Mikaela slapped his younger self hard enough to send him staggering and make his eyes water before the pregnant woman went stalking right through him. Sam watched himself growl and grumble and seethe, then stop his pacing when he heard the screech of tires and a dull thud.

Sam followed himself as his younger self bolted out the door at a more sedate place, knowing what he'd find. Once he exited the building, he saw himself holding a broken Mikaela in his arms, the driver of the car that had hit her having sped away, whether in shame, fear, or drunkenness wasn't his concern. All that mattered to him was the life—_lives—_that were seeping out beneath him. He fumbled for his cell phone, but it slipped out of his hands and slid into the nearby sewer drain, making him cry out in terror, pain, and frustration. He wouldn't—_couldn't—_leave Mikaela and his unborn daughter, though.

Sam watched himself try every trick he knew to keep her alive, to save her, but, in the end, all he could do was watch as she, and the child she carried, faded into death.

Sam violently wiped tears from his eyes, jaw clenching. "That was _cruel_," Sam snarled, hands gripping his head, eyes closing.

"Do not blame me for your actions," the spirit said softly. "Although that is not the only reason you hate Christmas."

"Don't you _dare—_"

Sam was unable to finish his threat, as he found himself observing his younger self standing in the middle of a semi-circle of solemn Cybertronians.

"I'm sorry, but...it can't be helped. The Blight is _definitely_ something that you have brought with you from one planet or another that you visited in hopes of finding the All Spark," Sam heard himself say sadly.

"This was the beginning. When you decided Power was more important than anything—or anyone. It was when you sent your best friends and closest allies away," the sparkling murmured to Sam, who grimaced.

"I spoke the truth—the Blight _is_ something alien in nature. The disease...it doesn't behave like anything anyone on Earth could have cooked up, even if they had the most advanced technology available. Its symptoms _also_ point to the Cybertronians as its source; afterall, what disease on Earth can cause an organic body to become metallic? Without the procedure to reverse the process, the diseased dies once all organic tissue has been eliminated. I suppose...it might be like the Europeans giving the Natives of the Americas smallpox. Although I think the Blight was unintentional—at least on the Autobot's parts. Perhaps it was the last gasp of the Decepticon presence on Earth, a lingering, deadly plague that could have possibly wiped out the entire human race—that almost _did_, in certain parts of the world."

"And _you_ were the bearer of Bad News. On Christmas," the sparkling commented, making Sam nod, his eyes haunted.

"To send some of the people who were the most influential in my entire life...it _hurt_. Especially...especially Bumblebee. That I was _new_ to this whole politics stuff was hard on me. Charisma can get you many things, but it is nothing in the face of panic and fear."

Sam glared at the picture before him. "If only I had been stronger. If only I had been more persuasive, shown people that the 'bots could _help_ find a cure! If only...if only..."

"If only you had more power."

"Exactly! That way I could have...I could have saved my mom and dad's lives."

"They were some of the first to fall victim to the disease," the sparkling murmured, and Sam found himself standing at his mother's bedside in the hospital, his younger version holding onto her heavy, unmoving, metal hand, his dad in the bed right next to hers.

His ability to pull strings had afforded him that much.

"Even with the best care at the time, they weren't able to be saved. The doctors were absolutely baffled by their condition—no-one knew what to make of it. They were very closely studied, and it was only by my pitching a fit that they were not dissected 'for science'," Sam spat out venomously.

"Sam?" he heard his mom ask, and his younger self's head snapped up, he placing his free hand on his mother's forehead.

"Yeah?" he asked, voice tremulous.

"I love you," she said weakly.

"I know—I love you, too..."

With those last words, she passed into death, and Sam watched his younger self break down, silent tears of agonizing grief have seized him.

"My father followed a few hours later," Sam murmured tightly. "They both died on Christmas Day."

"If only you had more power, you could have prevented their deaths."

"Yes! Then...then I could accomplish everything I wanted. I could gain control over my fate, not find myself trapped in helplessness."

"And that is where your downfall began—when the need for power _consumed_ you. That was when you started drifting away from your Cybertronian friends. From your wife. From your friends. When your world narrowed to _just you_ was when you started down the path that I, along with those who will follow me, am attempting to pull you from."

Sam felt the atmosphere shift around him, and the vision of the past faded, leaving him looking at his living room. His shoulders slumped, Sam walked into his bedroom and sat down heavily on his bed, head falling into his hands.

_Why show me that when all it brings back is the pain and my _hatred_ of the season for being a reminder of all that I have lost?_ He thought, face twisting in agony. "Why?"

The silence that surrounded him gave him no answer.


	3. The Ghost of Christmas Present

**Author**: Yup, time for the Ghost of Christmas Present.

**Disclaimer**: ha ha no.

---

Sam was in a pensive mood the next day, and it took a great deal of effort to wrench his concentration to the work at hand.

He had gone to his office, as his apartment suddenly seemed stuffy and dismal, even though the windows were large and let in what watery sunlight there was.

He sat back in his chair, which squeaked gently on its hinge, the fabric conforming to his back and rested his interlaced fingers on the desk before him, eyes unseeing as he attempted to read the e-mails that _still_ appeared in his inbox.

It appeared he wasn't the only one who was alone on Christmas Eve. Either that, or there were those who were even worse workaholics than he.

The day passed at a dreary, dragging pace, and Sam was less productive than he would have liked. If only his memories didn't keep on popping up and barraging his consciousness, he would have been able to get much more work done.

As it was, he remained in his office until 10PM, making his way home slowly. All stores were closed, save for maybe 24-hour gas stations. The windows in each shop were dark, but Christmas decorations hung brightly around the entryways and displays. He encountered very few people as he meandered down almost-empty streets, lost in his own world, greetings from those he _did_ meet falling flat on his ears, but what did they matter? Christmas was painful for him, and he _still_ didn't like the occasion much.

As he walked, he thought—if he remembered correctly, he was due for a visit from the ghost of Christmas Present this evening.

_At least _this_ ghost is supposed to be a friendly one,_ he thought with the smallest of wry smiles. _Maybe it won't be so sadistic as the ghost of christmas past._

Sam reached his apartment, steps weary from walking so far, and made his meagre Christmas Eve dinner (which was like every other meal he took—nutritionally correct, nothing special; why bother wasting money on frivolities?), and sat down in front of his television to watch something appropriately mind-numbing. He settled in his bed and turned on the TV; however, the only thing that seemed to be playing were Christmas specials of one sort or another, from _A Wonderful Life_ to any number of permutations of what he was now _living._

_I wonder who they will be,_ Sam thought idly. _My ghosts of present and future._

Sam was so lost in his musings and the vacuous flickering of the television screen that he didn't notice the passage of time. Eventually, the digital clock in his room flipped to one in the morning—not that Sam noticed the event. It took him a number of minutes to register the music that was coming from his living room. He frowned, slid off his bed, and walked over, opening the door to reveal the room, wondering what _possibly_ could be happening.

Sam's jaw dropped when he was picked up by the being that was somehow able to fit in the room, placed on eye-level with familiar optics.

"_Bumblebee_?" he asked, astonished.

"_Celebrate good times, c'mon_!" he chirped.

"Bee? A _ghost_?" Sam asked skeptically.

"I am who you would best respond to," the spirit replied, echoing the sentiment of the ghost of christmas past. "_C'mon, c'mon, c'mon, c'mon, everybody, everyone._"

Sam suddenly found himself on street level, Bee's door swinging open for him, the ghost suddenly and inexplicably in Bee's Camaro form. Sam hesitated for a second before stepping in, crossing his arms as he sat. A seat-belt slithered over him and buckled him in, making Sam distinctly nervous. "Where are we going?"

"_You'll find us anywhere and everywhere_" came the reply through the speakers.

"What?" Sam squawked before Bee took off like a shot. Sam could have sworn that they were speeding along so fast that the colors of the outside blurred into one long color-stream. Eventually, they skidded to a halt, Sam going tumbling out of the passenger-seat door. Sam climbed to his feet and looked up at the quaint house.

"What're we doing _here_?" he asked crossly.

"_Ch-ch-check it out_," Bee said as he transformed, somehow shrinking to become human-height, giving Sam a happy sound.

"God, I forgot how _pleasant_ you could be," Sam muttered. He stumbled up the stairs when Bee shoved him, and tripped over the last step, falling _through_ the doorway, just barely catching himself on his hands. He looked up sharply when he heard a laugh, about to rebuke whomever it was who was laughing at him, but there was no-one but he in the hallway, which meant it had nothing to do with him. Frowning, he walked to where there was the brightest source of light.

He turned into a room that was festooned with all the colors and trappings of the season, and there was a veritable riot of presents underneath a tree that took up almost half of the room. The tree was strung with so many lights Sam was astonished it didn't catch on fire, and the boughs were groaning under the weight of all the ornaments hung on its branches. There was a semi-circle of children around it, brightly-wrapped packages discarded at random across the room.

"What day is it?" Sam asked as Bee stood next to him.

"_Christmas, Christmas time is here_."

"Mm," Sam murmured and watched the kids play for a long moment.

Bee motioned with his head for Sam to approach the kids. "_The moon man tells me they won't bite_."

Sam muttered darkly, but approached, kneeling in the midst of the gaggle.

Nothing that they were playing with was state-of-the-art. Everything was low-tech and inexpensive, but the kids were acting like they were handling the most coveted toys of the season. It completely baffled Sam.

What made matters more confusing was that the tree was _fake_, even though all the decorations were real enough. The tree was sprayed to smell like pine, but it most definitely wasn't the real thing.

"Who—" Sam's voice died in his throat as he saw a child rocking himself in a corner, playing with his own things and ignoring everything else. A frown formed on his features as he walked carelessly through the other kids over to him. "What's wrong with this one?"

"_And I think he's lost, I think he's lost,_" Bee answered.

"Lost?" Sam repeated, but his eyes widened when he saw the adults walked in.

Leo, along with his grown children, wandered into the living room.

"I'm at _Leo's_ place?"

"It's Christmas here, too, y'know," Bee said, using a soundclip from one Christmas Carol or another.

Sam frowned and walked over to Leo, wanting to eavesdrop on his conversation, since he looked so pleased, yet with an undercurrent of sadness.

"It's nice to have everyone in one place," Leo said happily.

"True that," came a reply from Leo's youngest, a young man with stunningly good looks (who was obviously unrelated to either Seymour _or_ Leo). "It's great to see everyone, and you're the only one with a place big enough. Doesn't it get lonely here?"

"Not as lonely as you'd think," Leo answered lightly. "Certainly less lonely that one person I know."

"Oh, c'mon. He's a Scrooge and you know it. He begrudges every moment you take off, pays you less than you should have after working in the government for so long, is hardly _ever_ pleasant..." one of his daughters began, obviously winding up to a rant.

Leo held up his hand and she fell quiet, still simmering. "Dear, it's _Christmas_. Even if _he_ hates it, that doesn't make it any less important to _me._ I love being with you all."

Sam was torn between gagging from the sentimentality and smiling wistfully. Either emotion annoyed him.

Leo's eyes eventually fell on the lone child in the corner and he looked over to his other daughter. "How's Timothy doing?"

"It's getting worse every day," she said morosely. "But the procedure is far too expensive for even our combined resources."

Leo's shoulder slumped. "And to think of how bright and cheerful he used to be..."

"It's a shame, but all we can do is make his life as comfortable as possible," she murmured before walking over to her son.

Sam watched as she brought him back to the group, and when he caught sight of the boy's eyes, Sam's eyebrows snapped up. "He has the Blight?" he half-exclaimed.

Bee nodded, a sad, forlorn sound emitting from him.

Sam followed the family as they rounded up the children and brought them all into the dining room, where a feast—or, what could theoretically pass as one—was laid out on the table before them.

Once every had sat down, Leo held out his hands for his children to take, and the gesture worked its way down the line, the Blighted boy's mother holding his hand tightly. As Leo spoke a general prayer, the Blighted child's eyes (Timothy?) focused on Sam, and Sam froze, pinned by the unearthly-glowing eyes.

"Samuel Witwicky," he said in a voice that was hoarse either from disuse, or, perhaps, screaming from the pain of the transformation that was eating away at his body.

"I suppose it would be good of us to mention him at this time," Leo murmured, amused and confused. "To Sam, that he might find some comfort."

There was a general muttering of discontent, but a straggle of "Amen"s were eventually said.

Sam quickly turned away, although he could feel the eyes on his back all the way out of the house, where he found Bee waiting for him. Sam looked back at the house, hesitated, then asked, "The kid. Is he going to die?"

"What does it matter if he dies? There's a population crisis on this planet, afterall," Bee said in Sam's own voice.

Sam winced as his words were thrown back in his face.

Bee grew and folded into his alt-form again, the door opening. "_We aren't done yet, we just got started._"

Sam dejectedly slid into the seat, his arms crossing to keep the chill of the Blighted's gaze away. He knew that the child _shouldn't've_ been able to see him, but knew just as surely that he had.

Bee pulled up to another house, and Sam stepped out without prompting this time. "Who is it this time?" Sam groused, but the tone was all bravado. He entered the house through the door—literally. He found himself standing in a living room, and on a cluster of couches and chairs, he found a group of people sitting and laughing.

"Miles?" he asked aloud, walking over. "What're they playing?"

When he reached the family of four (and an aunt and uncle and a number of cousins, not all of whom were playing), his mouth twisted in a slight smile. "Apples to Apples, huh? God, how long has it been since I played a game—_any_ game?"

"_It happened many years ago, when summer slipped away._"

Sam flinched. "Ah. I see."

The group burst into uproarious laughter, and Miles was slid the adjective card. "God, I feel like such a bad person for putting that down..." he chuckled as he added the card to his growing collection.

"That's okay," Miles' wife, Clara, said as she wiped tears away from her eyes. "You're a wonderful man otherwise," she told him and kissed his cheek, making the man smile.

Sam rolled his eyes, but the smallest of smiles formed on his face.

Sam found himself becoming absorbed in the game, even going so far as to sit down next to Miles, looking at his cards and arguing over the choices the other players made in favor of what _he_ would have put down using Miles' nouns. He barely noticed the passing of time at all.

"It's your turn, honey," Clara said and put down a adjective card, and Sam frowned at the blank spot where the adjective should be.

"Hmm...create your own adjective?" Miles murmured, causing everyone around him to groan as Sam's eyebrows rose.

"You need a dictionary to find out what your words mean!"

Miles laughed. "This one shouldn't be _too_ outside your vocabulary—magnanimous_."_

There was a brief moment as someone looked it up the definition on their phone. "Merriam-Webster says that magnanimous means showing or suggesting nobility of feeling and generosity of mind."

There was a pause of a minute or so, most of those gathered looking exasperated while one looked rather smug. Once all the cards were in the pile, Miles mixed them before setting them out.

"Magnanimous car horns. Magnanimous a dozen red roses. Magnanimous national enquirer. Magnanimous Salvador Dali. Magnanimous science fair projects. Dude, guys, these suck. But what's the choose-a-noun?"

One of the assembled—the one who had been rather smug—grinned and said, "Samuel Witwicky."

At that, the entire assembly broke out laughing, which made Sam frown. "What's so funny?" he asked, before the chatter of the group sent his spirit sinking towards his heels.

Apparently, his association with the adjective was an antonym.

He took little comfort in the wistful smile that graced Miles' face before he stood and walked away from the game, not noticing that Miles didn't choose his name as the winner. He looked up at Bee, whose expression was one of pity.

"_It's not over, not over, not over, not over yet_," the spirit said gently.

Sam followed him with slumped shoulders, and when he sat in the car, there was absolute silence up until they pulled up in front of a rather downtrodden neighborhood.

"Who would I know here?" Sam asked tiredly.

"No-one. But that's not the point," Bee said in his own voice and led Sam to a room inside a run-down apartment complex.

At the table sat a small, obviously desperately poor family, but their spirits seemed rather uplifted for their dismal surroundings. It baffled Sam, and as Bee ushered him around DC, and perhaps even outside it, Sam saw all kinds of permutations of Christmas—from first Christmases _alone_ to first Christmases _together_. He saw all tiers of society, every race and sex and age represented. It seemed as if, while Christmas itself _had_ become commercialized, the spirit still flourished all across boundaries.

Sam's head was spinning so badly after all he had seen that he didn't notice that he was standing in the middle of a deserted intersection, the lights all on red. He looked around, baffled and alarmed.

"Bee?" he asked nervously.

"My time with you is done," he heard the spirit answer from behind him, and Sam turned to face him, surprised at the spirit's condition. All over him were patches of rust that had eaten away at his armor, exposing wiring that was sparking with breaks and age. His optics were dull, as if blinded, and cracks riddled his body. Everything suggested a far advanced age—or, perhaps, simply being close to death.

"A spirit gets old?" Sam asked nervously.

"My kind do," Bee answered wryly. "Now, I leave you with the ghost of Christmas yet-to-come."

"Wait, wait, no! This is the scary part!" Sam half-pleaded, but when he touched Bee's form, the shell collapsed into a pile of rusting metal, making Sam take a few quick steps back, coughing from the debris thrown up. He swallowed hard, stomach sinking.

"Okay, Sam. You'll be okay. It's just a spirit, right?"

A chill shadow fell over him and he turned quickly on his heel, a gasp escaping him as his eyes tracked upwards along the shrouded, dark form. Sam's stomach sunk as all that was clearly visible to him was a pair of viciously clawed hands.

"You can't be _serious_—for me, the ghost of christmas yet-to-come is a _Decepticon_?"

---

As for the music, I can't vouch for the quality of the songs used. I typed in " (stuff) " lyrics and took whatever google spat out back at me. So...

Music and soundbyte credits in order of appearance:

"celebrate", earth wind and fire

Def Leppard, "C'mon, c'mon"

The Take-Off, "Youth Anthem"

Beastie Boys, "Ch-Check it out"

"The Chipmunk song", The Chipmunks

Don Williams, "Catfish Bates"

Donna Hughes, "Lost"

"Muppet Christmas carol"

"Give Me More", Apartment 26

Girls Aloud, "Life Got Cold"

"It's Not Over Yet", Klaxons


	4. The Ghost of Christmas Future

**Author**: And here be the Ghost of Christmas Future

**Disclaimer**: Nope.

---

The spirit ignored Sam's exclamation and simply pointed down the road, which seemed to stretch on into infinity, the buildings looming up menacingly around Sam, windows dark and accusatory.

Sam hesitated, his eyes flickering up to the spirit, whose visage was covered in shadow, only the clawed hand that was ordering him on visible.

Sam's head ducked and he turned his feet down the road. Each stepped seemed to take him miles, and he soon found himself standing in the employee cafeteria in the government building that he worked in. He looked up at the shadow-con, nervous and questioning. A long, sharp finger pointed to a nearby table of four employees from one department or another—Sam had never cared to figure out who shared the building with him. It had never mattered to him, wrapped up in his bitterness and rage as he had been. Sam walked over to the group, standing at the head of the table, listening in on their conversation.

"How'd it happen?" one asked another as they sat across the table from each other.

"Hell if I know. _I_ just wish it happened _sooner,_" replied the other dryly.

"Don't we all," another snorted before taking a sip of his soda.

The woman sitting next to him took away the soda before placing a bottle of water before him. "If you keep on eating and drinking like that, you'll be the next to join him."

"I don't think there'll be much of a funeral—do you?" the first speaker posed.

There was a soft, general chuckle.

"Hell no," the third person said definitively. "Who'd go to it?"

"I wouldn't mind," the second commented around a bite of sandwich.

"What?!" exclaimed the rest of the table.

The man grinned after swallowing, "If I get a paid sick-day for it."

The table burst into laughter and Sam looked over his shoulder at the 'con who was towering over him even in the confines of the room. The 'con's hand swept out to encompass the room, silently telling Sam to wander and listen in on the conversations.

Sam hesitated before starting a circuit of the room.

He stopped beside two men who were standing in the cashier line.

"So, what now?" one asked the other.

"Well, with him gone, all the other departments will get the money that we've needed for so long," came the reply.

"True, true," said the first speaker.

The two moved on to another topic of conversation, talking about whatever particular business that their department dealt with.

_Such a short conversation,_ Sam wondered. _There and gone. Was this dead man really of such little consequence?_

"I just hope God has mercy on his soul."

"Why does he deserve mercy when he gave no-one mercy?"

Sam overheard as he walked past two women who were sitting down at a table.

Every conversation he listened in on had the same theme—the dead man, whomever he may be. Never once—never _once—_was there anything besides pleasure expressed at his departure from the living. Sure, there were some who expressed empty platitudes over the demise of the unfortunate, but that was almost _insulting._

_Whoever this guy is must be _hated_ if people are so happy to see him go,_ Sam thought to himself as he returned to where the 'con was waiting. The topic he had listened in on had depressed him, and he was anxious to get out of the cafeteria.

He looked inquisitively up at the 'con, and when the spirit moved from blocking Sam's sight of the area behind it, Sam found himself in a completely different place. He was standing in front of what he now recognized as Leo's family home, and his shoulders relaxed slightly. If he was here, surely not _all_ could be bad? He looked up at his guide, who pointed to the door.

Sam trotted up the few steps and melted through the door. When not a single peal of laughter met his ears, he frowned.

Perhaps something _was_ wrong.

He walked into the parlor, where the tree still was, where the presents had been unwrapped, but there was no glee, no pleasure at the results of said actions. It was more out of routine than anything else that something had been done at all. The children were curled up against their parents as they all watched one Christmas special or another on the television, but they seemed to derive no pleasure out of the holiday message, the adults looking pensive and holding onto their children perhaps a little too tightly for comfort—but not a single child was complaining. They had apparently caught the somber mood, and while they played together with the toys that they had received from Santa, it was subdued. Sam's frown deepened and he looked for his employee.

He found him sitting with his daughter in the kitchen, the woman's head resting on his shoulder, she saying one word into the cloth of his shoulder over and over again, "Why?"

"We knew he wouldn't last much longer," Leo murmured softly, his hand lightly stroking his daughter's head. "Not with how quickly it spread."

"He was _still_ my baby!" she sobbed. "And now he's _gone_."

Sam's heart sunk and he whirled to find the 'con standing right behind him. "He died, didn't he? The Blighted one? Even though there _is_ a cure for the Blight..." Sam's eyes returned to the broken woman. "He was just a _child_. Part of humanity's future." He walked over to the woman and attempted to place his hand on her shoulder, but it simply slipped through her. "How can we endure it?"

"Tim will never be forgotten," Leo asserted after kissing his daughter's head. "He will be remembered for his hope in a dire situation—you know that he never gave up fighting until it had simply progressed too far to be cured. And even then, he still believed—as only a child can—that he would recover."

"That makes it _worse_. He looked to me to help him and I was _powerless_! I'm his _mother_!" she cried, her hands winding tightly in her father's shirt.  
Sam's heart wrenched in his chest, his words being echoed in another form. "I..." his voice died as he could find no words to capture the emotion he wanted to express. Sam turned quickly to face the 'con. "I can _change_ this, right? This isn't set in stone, right?"

The 'con only response was to move its clawed hand, blocking Sam's vision before revealing a new environment.

_You'd think I'd be used to that by now,_ he thought idly to himself as he looked around, trying to adjust to his new surroundings.

Eventually, his eyes fell on a familiar—yet oddly unfamiliar—form, who was sitting next to an empty bed, a picture frame held delicately in his hands. Sam walked over to the man stationed at bedside and looked at him.

The man appeared _old_, care worn deep on his features. His eyes were distant and dim with exhaustion and depression. His hair was a dull, flat gray, and a mouth that seemed it had known more smiles than frowns now appeared to be permanently etched into a downward turn.

It took Sam a long moment to finally place the broken man before him as Miles.

Miles' gaze was _fixated_ on the picture frame, and Sam moved around behind him to look at what Miles was.

It was a picture of his family, making Sam's head snap over to him, jaw going slack in horror. "Oh, _no_. Oh no, no, no, _no_..."

"I understand now, Sam," he murmured softly, his fingertips brushing against the cold glass over the family picture. "I don't think I can move on. All my children—and my _grandchildren—_gone in a plane crash." A wry smile formed on Miles' features. "I've always hated flying; I suppose this justifies my fear. A 'technical failure,' they told me. It was because of a glitch in the system that I've lost the light in my life."

Miles laughed bitterly. "It appears that your bad luck rubbed off on me, old friend—my wife was struck with the Blight a year ago from today. She just died," Miles said, eyes looking up to focus on the empty _hospital bed._ "God, Sam. I know. I _understand_ why you became such a cold-hearted bastard. It's the only way you can survive when your soul is bleeding out."

"Oh, god, Miles, I'm so sorry," Sam half-sobbed and reached out for his best friend, only to have his hands pass through him like smoke, Sam unable to comfort his best friend in his ice-cold grief.

Sam whirled on the 'con, looking up at him in desperation. "Please, spirit. Tell me that these can be changed! These _are_ only possibilities, right?"

The 'con remained unflappable and simply gestured, taking Sam away from the room that broke his heart, Sam's eyes lingering on his best friend's form before he found himself in a nearly-empty warehouse, a small pile of items cluttering the area in front of a few people, obviously workers at the place.

"It's a shame, really, that all this is going to go to waste," one muttered.

"I _know_," said another. "Just _look_ at all this stuff. It's all barely used and in prime condition. Simple, but well made. Bet they'd make a fortune on e-bay."

"as long as you don't tell people where you got it."

The group laughed, although one shook her head. "I don't know about tha. There might be some who want a piece of the infamy."

"You're shitting me."

"No joke. People are sick."

"Well, it's not like any relatives are going to come looking for these things—I don't even know if he _has_ any. So, we all take what we can carry?"

"Sounds like a plan to me. Ladies first," said one of the men, gesturing to another, who cuffed him over the ears so that the man was sent staggering.

"I'll take that," the only woman in the group said, going through the pile of belongings.

Sam looked over to the 'con who stood next to him silently, Sam's eyes wide with horror. "People would scavange a dead man's belongings and then _sell them_? That's...that's..._theivery._ Wrong. But...no-one will stop them, will they?" Sam asked as he watched the group pick over the items. "If this man is as hated as it appears." Sam turned his gaze again to the 'con. "Please, take me elsewhere. I can't...I can't watch this."

The 'con gestured again, and Sam discovered he was now standing in a cold, impersonal room, something oddly-shaped and sheet-covered lying on a tray between two people. The aforementioned pair were talking quietly, and Sam gradually resolved their forms into one of a police officer and his cousin Spike (to whom he hadn't spoken in years—he had had quite the falling-out with his father's side of the family).

"What's _he_ doing in DC with a _cop_?" Sam wondered aloud, a frown marring his features.

Eventually, the two parted, obviously having concluded some point of business, the tray that had been between them pushed inside its casing, and the door closed behind it, joining many among a wall of trays. The room was deathly quiet, and the lights were turned off around him, whatever having happened obviously being the final matter of the day. Sam jumped and looked around nervously, but the only thing that breeched the gloom was a soft, ghostly light that the 'con gave off. A clawed finger reached out and gently rested against the tray that had just been closed.

Sam slowly approached it, the events that he had witnessed whirling around in his mind, he desperately trying to find some connection between them all. He reached the door and put his hand on it before drawing it sharply away, the metal freezing against his fingers. He looked back over his shoulder at the 'con, but the claw remained on the particular tray Sam was standing before, making him swallow. "Look," Sam began as he turned towards the 'con, "I know I've made mistakes in my life, but I _still_ can change, right? If I...If I'm around, I can make sure that kid get the treatment for the Blight, and I can help protect Miles' family, keep him from becoming like...like _me_," Sam finished in a whisper. "I know that what I've been shown isn't just about Christmas—it's about life in general. Carrying Christmas over to the rest of the year, right? Kindness towards my fellow humans, looking outside myself, realizing that accruing power isn't _everything_. I _understand_, spirit. I..."

The claw moved from the tray to Sam, pressing him against the door, and Sam felt himself fall through , he voicing a cry of surprise. He threw out his hands, which connected against cold, cold metal. He felt the air dwindling, felt himself grow sluggish with oxygen deprivation and terror.

_I take _pleasure_ in your demise, Prime,_ hissed Megatron's gleeful voice in his mind. _With you gone, with the _last Prime_ vanished from this universe, there is nothing to stop me! Nothing! Your planet will be fodder for my followers and the Blight will be the least of your people's problems! The Universe is _mine_ with you gone! Wallow in agony in your last moments, knowing that you were the only thing preventing my domination of this galaxy, of this Universe!_

"NO!" Sam screamed in horror as Megatron's cruel laugh echoed throughout Sam's being. Sam _couldn't_ let Megatron take over. He had to stop the Decepticon leader—who else but he had the ability to stand up to the ferocious warrior? Only a _Prime_ could drive away the Decepticon, and if Optimus had perished as Megatron was implying...he was the _only Prime_ _left._

He could feel the ache of wounds all over his body, could feel them burn with agonizing chill. He screamed and thrashed, bloodying his hands against the constricting walls of the refrigerator cell.

"No! No, no, no! Please, I don't want to die! I'm not _dead_, I can change! _I can change_!"


	5. The End

**Author**: And the last chapter!

**Disclaimer**: I wish. I really, really do. But I don't.

---

Sam suddenly found he was fighting against something that was much softer, and that the only reason he couldn't breathe was because it was covering him—but it was _moveable._ Sam quickly found an opening, and stuck his head out, taking deep breaths of air, his pulse racing. His eyes finally focused on what was above him, and his jaw dropped as he recognized it. He squirmed and looked down at himself, recognizing his blankets. His head whipped around and he let out a joyous whoop as he recognized his bedroom. He nearly tripped over himself as he clawed his way out of his blankets and ran into the adjoining rooms.

Everything was there! _He_ was there! He ran over to his computer and pulled it up, looking at the date and time.

Christmas! It was _Christmas_! He hadn't missed it!

Sam grinned widely, his blood singing in his veins. He had never been more grateful to be _alive_. There was so much he had to _do_...

The more sensible part of Sam put a break on his enthusiasm and reminded him that a complete 180 in just two days _probably_ wasn't a good idea. Gentle, gentle...no matter how much he wanted to go about and just _help_ people like he used to—like he was _bound_ to do as a _Prime_—he had to exercise discretion. He didn't want to end up in a mental institution, afterall.

Sam took a deep breath and centered himself, looking at his softly glowing computer screen.

_Well. First things first._

Sam sat down and logged onto payroll and immediately hiked up Leo's pay to match his experience and seniority in the hierarchy. Sam was ashamed to see how much he had neglected to reward Leo for decades of service to him and his country.

Sam checked his own account in the bank and blanched in shock. He hadn't known he had _that_ much tucked away.

_Guess that without a family or friends, who needs to spend money?_ He thought wryly. He searched out the hospital that was on the forefront of Blight research and donated a large sum of money to that department, as well as to the pediatrics division, attaching his name to it and marking it as authentic, idly alerting his bank to the massive withdrawl. He sat back in his chair and smiled faintly. He would _personally_ make sure that Leo's grandchild received the best care possible—would front all the costs for the procedure—while neglecting to tell Leo who did so.

Sam picked up his phone, made a few pointed phone calls, and then pushed away from his desk, a carefree smile on his face.

_I should visit Miles. Call my extended family. When was the last time I was in touch with Spike or Sparkplug? I should send them gifts or _something. _Visit my mother and father's grave._ A brief flicker of agony passed over his countenance. _Mikaela and my daughter's graves. How long has it been since I forced myself to face up to my mistake?_

He knew he'd never be able to get in contact with the 'bots, even though he wished he could see and talk to Bumblebee and Optimus again, just to see if they were alive and well, ask what they had been up to, tell them he was sorry. Sam's lips twitched in a wistful smile before he took a quick shower, putting on the best clothes he had that weren't a tuxedo or something ridiculously formal. He shrugged on his warmest coat and took what belongings he needed, and was astonished to find that it was _snowing_ when he left the building.

His breath came out in puffs of fog in front of him, and he found himself smiling like an idiot. The snow didn't stick on the warm pavement, but Sam didn't mind as it coated his hair and shoulders, melting gently due to his body heat. He meandered down the streets and stopped by a few stores that were open. He bought things that Miles and his family would probably like, and stopped by for grave ornaments made from fir trees, the most beautiful he could find.

He hailed a taxi and stepped in, placing his purchases next to him. He gave the cabby the name of the cemetery his wife and child were buried in and sat back, looking out the window. "Funny that it's snowing," he commented absently.

The cabby snorted. "Weather men are _always_ wrong."

Sam carried a pleasant conversation with the cabby and "accidentally" gave him too much, and got out before the cabby could make change. He hefted his belongings and walked through the lightly-dusted grass to the simple, yet elegant, tombstone.

He set everything else aside before placing the grave-blanket on the ground before the headstone, before he placed two other items he had bought—a wrench and a small child's toy on top of the grave blanket. He stood and looked at the names, forced to bite back tears. His heart was breaking again, but it felt...cleansing, somehow. Yes, he was responsible for the deaths. Yes, that would weigh on him heavily for the rest of his life. But...he didn't think that Mikaela would want him to still be beating himself up about his mistake—she'd probably have whacked him over the head with the wrench-throwing skill that she seemed to have picked up from spending time with Ratchet and told him to grow some balls and deal with his mistake, then _move on._

"You always were my better half," Sam murmured softly, the fog of his breath taking his words into the heavens.

He spent a long while standing there, letting snow accumulate on himself as he reminisced about their brief time together. Eventually, he heaved a deep sigh, picked up the other odds and ends he had purchased and walked back to the street in hopes of hailing another cab.

He was surprised to find the one he had taken _to_ the graveyard had stayed. Sam stepped in and the cabby gave him a wry smile. "Where to now?"

"Are you planning on staying with me the entire time? There will be quite a few trips," Sam asked.

"I'm planning on staying with you until the money you gave me runs out," the cabby answered gruffly. "It _is_ Christmas."

"Don't you have family?" Sam asked, frowning slightly.

"No more than you do, sir."

Sam blinked, then smiled wryly. "Uh-huh. Well, then. Let us continue."

Together, they drove all across DC; Sam stopped at a homeless shelter and left a large donation with the volunteers there, who stared at the number of zeros that were written on the check more than the name inscribed on said check.

He stopped by the children's hospital that Leo's grandchild was to have the procedure to cure him of the Blight, arranging for gifts to be sent to all the sick children stuck in the hospital over the holidays as well as checking to make sure the receptionist got the date and time of the procedure correct.

As they passed a Roman Catholic church, Sam told the cabby to stop.

"Why?" the man asked, curious.

"My mom was Catholic, although my father converted her to atheism. I sometimes miss the pomp and circumstance of mass."

"Alright. Won't wait around for an hour, though."

"I didn't expect you to," Sam said warmly.

Eventually, the cabby pulled up to a church and Sam stepped out, giving the man a smile, wave, and "Merry Christmas" before Sam entered the church along with a throng of other people.

He ended up standing in a corner, as there was nowhere for him to sit. He didn't mind, though—perhaps it was some penance on his part.

Memories of earlier times floated into his mind and heart, and he found himself actually _relaxing_ amidst the tradition that surrounded him. He was astonished that he remembered prayers he hadn't said for _years_, and enjoyed singing the hymns and carols of the season, and found himself constantly biting back tears.

He dropped a hundred dollars in the collection basket when it passed him, and only the slight start of surprise from the usher demonstrated that anyone noticed his rather large contribution.

Once mass had ended, he waited for the rest of the congregation to file out, there being a break between the mass than had ended and the next. He simply basked in the incense-filled air, and closed his eyes, feeling a lingering sense of something larger than himself in the air.

"Can I help you?" he heard someone ask, and he opened his eyes to a the priest looking at him curiously.

Sam gave the man a gentle, genuine smile. "Perhaps. Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. It has been...45 years since my last confession."

The priest's eyebrows snapped up in surprise. "You return after so long?"

"I've had a change of heart, and since I can only believe it to be divine intervention, I thought I might as well return to my roots."

The priest gave him a long, searching look before smiling himself. "This is a time of rejoicing, and I am sure that He rejoices that you have found Him again. I absolve you of your sins," the priest said and made a sign of the cross over Sam, which the man mimicked, "and wish you a happy and blessed holiday. Your penance will be to serve your fellow man."

Sam smiled and couldn't entirely help the tear that escaped his control. "Trust me, Father. After spending so many years using them, I intend to make it up in full."

Sam departed, wiping his eyes as he walked out into the still-snow-filled air. He meandered leisurely down the street, bidding passers-by "Happy Holidays," which were returned more often than not.

_Perhaps in a cold, uncaring world, this brief moment of light and warmth has more meaning than anyone is willing to attribute to it,_ he thought.

After briefly consulting his phone for directions, he found his way to Miles's house. In the snow-covered gloom, Sam could see inside the house, the brightly lit tree and the group of people, obviously enjoying themselves.

Sam looked at the bag of presents in his hand, hesitating. After a pause, he laughed at himself.

_Miles was always your _best friend_. Surely he won't care about you dropping in unannounced._

Sam walked over and rang the doorbell, composing himself. Wouldn't do any good to break appearances _too_ soon.

It was Miles who answered the door.

The two stood there looking at each other for a beat, Miles astonished, Sam doing a poor job of concealing his amusement.

"I assume it isn't too late for me to take you up on that holiday party?" Sam asked, a laugh in his voice.

"Sa—no. No, it isn't too late. C'min, it's actually _snowing_ and I don't need you dying of pneumonia."

Sam gave his best friend a wide smile and stepped in, handing the bags to Miles, who nearly dropped them in surprise.

"They're nothing much, but I had little to work with, it being _Christmas_ _day_ and all," he said as he took off his jacket and scarf and shook them off. As he hung them up on a nearby coat-rack, he caught the dazed look still on Miles' face. "What?" Sam asked, amusement thick in his voice.

"It's just...just...you seem so much _younger_. How old are you again?"

"Same as you, old friend," Sam replied and clapped Miles on the shoulder. "Now, would you mind introducing me to your lovely wife?"

"I—I....sure. Yes, yes, of course," Miles said a smile to match Sam's slowly growing. "Of course I will!"

Sam was escorted into the living room, where the packages Miles was carrying were set down with a flourish, the others in the room gaping at both the bags and the person who accompanied them.

"Mr....Witwicky?" Miles' wife asked slowly, obviously disbelieving.

"Sam, please," Sam replied warmly. "You are afforded every liberty Miles has with me—although I doubt that he remembers much of what _liberties_ I gave him," Sam drawled and Miles flushed as he recalled what Sam was referring—although no-one else understood.

"I promise you that I haven't lost my mind. I've just...had a change in perspective, if you will. Now, enlighten me—what _does_ one do on Christmas? It's been so long that I've forgotten."

With that, Miles sat Sam down and, after Sam demonstrated that it wasn't a bad joke he and Miles were playing on them, he was tentatively accepted (although his wit and almost precognitive perception of what the others would choose in Apples-to-Apples was eerie—it was as if he had watched them play before).

Sam ate food he hadn't tasted in decades, partook in a glass of alcohol, and was—for the first time in a very long time—truly happy.

Night fell far too quickly, and the adults sent the children off to sleep, leaving them all sitting in the living room, relaxing.

"When are you returning to your homes?" Sam asked innocently.

"Oh, early tomorrow morning," came the answer.

Sam waved his hand dismissively. "Waking up early to get to the airport is a hassle, and the little ones will be annoyed the entire time. I can arrange for a flight later in the day, courtesy of the US government—I'm sure the kids will be thrilled to be riding in a government-chartered plane. I'll reimburse your tickets, of course."

"Of course," one of Miles' children parroted, eyes wide.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Miles asked Sam, frowning.

"I'm _fine_, promise. I have thousands of frequent flier miles and what will they begrudge a man who asked for so little after helping the world so much?"

Miles nodded slowly. "Okay," he drew out. "You're not going to go back and say 'ha! Gotcha!' will you?"

Sam shook his head vigorously. "Never!"

Miles gave him a long, searching, look, but everyone eventually agreed and headed off to get some much-needed rest. Sam walked to the door with Miles, who stopped him from exiting, voice dropping to a whisper. "Okay, what did it take?"

"Pardon?"

"_Something_ happened to make you change this much. I want to know what it was," Miles half-demanded as Sam put on his coat and scarf.

Sam opened the door and gave Miles a wry smile. "If you need _anything, _Miles, please ask. Also...have you ever read _A Christmas Carol?_"

With that, Sam left, closing the door behind him before Miles could say anything else.

Sam was content to meander in snow-hushed streets, the glow of streetlights sentinels against the dark.

Overall, when he finally reached his apartment, his was wallet was much lighter, but so was his _soul._

_I had forgotten what it was like to genuinely care for people's welfare. Let's hope I can keep this good humour up in face of life—which has succeeded in crushing my spirit before._

Sam took the elevator up to the floor his apartment and entered it, a happy sigh escaping his lips.

_Mikaela, Bumblebee...watch me. I'll become a better Sam, I promise. So, if it was you—and Galloway, oddly enough—who intervened to bring those spirits to me, thank you._

"Thank you," Sam murmured to the still air, letting his coat drop to the floor, heedless of the snow that was melting on his face and head. "Thank you."

–

It was a week later, when Sam was humming softly as he worked on his computer, that he saw Leo again.

The man approached him, the strangest mixture of emotions on his face.

Sam simply quirked an eyebrow before going back to his work, as if everything were normal.

"Sam."

"Yes?"

"For the first time in _decades_, my pay has been raised—by a _whole lot._ My family received a shipment of the latest, best toys the day after Christmas. My grandson has been scheduled for the de-Blighting procedure."

"You've been quite lucky, then," Sam said mildly. "Congrats."

Leo crossed his arms, eyes narrowing at Sam. "Why the change in heart?"

"Who says that _I_ did anything?" Sam asked, looking back at his e-mail, it taking all of his self-control to keep himself from dying of laughter.

Leo huffed and ran a hand through his thinning hair. "No-one else could've raised my salary _except_ you."

"So I did," Sam replied blandly. "I was looking over the accounts and saw that I had neglected to raise your pay for far, far too long. So, I adjusted it to reflect your time working here."

Leo threw up his hands in frustration. "Fine. Be that way. Just...thank you. Thank you _so much._"

As Leo walked to his office, Sam replied, "It was my pleasure, Leo," he voice soft and warm.

That stopped Leo in his tracks, turning to face Sam, who looked up, giving him a small smile. "I'm glad that your grandson will live."

"How did...how did you _know_?"

"I assume you've seen any number of Christmas Carols, right?"

Leo nodded, a frown forming on his features. "Of course. There are hundreds of them."

Sam smiled and turned closed the display of his computer, giving Leo his entire attention. "If I were to record my last few evenings, from the 23rd-24th and 24th-25th, there would be a new version out," he said, fingers lacing together as they rested on his lap, Sam carefully watching his employee.

"Bullshit," Leo said flatly.

Sam smirked faintly. "Miles said that, too, until I kept an entire plane-ful of people from dying in a plane crash because I saw what he would become in the future should I continue to be my former dicky self—his family died on their way back from _this_ Christmas."

"Wait, _what_?"

"The plane that they were to take was found to have something wrong with the wiring near one of the engines—it would have gone down once the air became thin enough. So, I kept many people from dying by offering the use of a government plane."

Leo stared. "You would have _never_ done that before."

"Hey, getting paid a visit by my very own Marley and Ghosts of Christmas Past, Present, and Future really _did_ get it through my particularly thick skull."

"Who were they?" Leo asked, unable to hide his curiosity.

Sam smiled. "Galloway was my Marley. A Cybertronian sparkling with Optimus' voice was my Past, Bee was my Present, and _Megatron_ was my Future."

"Jesus, that must've been _really_ scary."

"Oh, yes," Sam murmured, shuddering.

"You're a lot more subdued than the other Scrooges."

"Hey, I had my revelation. It's just that in this digital age, it's much easier to be open-handed and magnanimous without anyone realizing it," Sam said almost _smugly._

Leo laughed. "You know, I shouldn't believe you, but I do. For some weird reason, _I do._"

"Because it's the truth. Now, why don't we see about making this department influential and important again?"

Leo grinned widely and gave Sam a casual salute. "Let's do it."

Sam chuckled and brought up his computer screen as Leo left. He had no idea how they were going to do it, but Sam knew that, somehow, _they would._


End file.
